Perturbo Aetas
by Aeryn's Last
Summary: It’s not the Last Battle, but it’s just as intense, and they’re just as unprepared. They’re dieing. And then, something amazing happens…Your typical Hermione sent back in time story? Maybe…but not quite. SBHG
1. Sacrifice

**Perturbo Aetas **

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Author: Aeryn's Last

Summary: It's not the Last Battle, but it's just as intense, and they're just as unprepared. They're dieing. And then, something amazing happens…Your typical Hermione sent back in time story? Maybe…but not quite. SB/HG

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PART ONE

_When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle -_Edmund Burke

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Sacrifice

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She'd never believed that darkness could be so absolute. Even when she was younger, scared of the night, she'd always known that there would be a light in the hall; one that told of her parents and that daylight would come. And as she grew older, she'd always had her wand. In darkness, Lumos could be used and there would be light.

She had her wand with her now. It was in her hand, rough and hot from the Curses she'd used, flaked with dried blood that she wasn't entirely sure was her own. It was there, so close to her, but she couldn't feel a thing. She couldn't raise it and lift the darkness.

For once, Hermione Granger was helpless.

There was a tilt to the world that spoke of endless falling, a silence of suppressed noise, such agony that ripped something from her throat – a sound? But no, she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't _think_…she didn't know. She didn't know at all.

Reality slammed back into her, shattering all breath behind her ribs, choking her. Hermione moaned quietly, curled on her side, bruised and battered and trying desperately to regain a sense of the world, of herself, of the situation. A sense of all. Her eyes fluttered, precariously close to that same darkness that beckoned to her, sang to her, called her name with lilting tones of old. _Hermione…Hermione…Hermione…Hermione…get up, Hermione…Get up… _

"Get up," she echoed under her breath, the breath that was stolen and seemed so far away. "Get up."

She blinked and she was on her knees, crawling away from her fallen spot, ignoring the screams of those around her, the flashing beams of Curses and Death. She blinked again and she was on the ground, twitching, the remains of a Curseclinging lovingly to her body. Hermione swallowed, closed her eyes, and pushed herself painstakingly to her knees again.

"Get up, Hermione, get up," she repeated like a mantra. "Get up, Hermione. _Get up_."

But now it wasn't just her voice. Another's twisted with hers and bloodied hands found her arms and Hermione stared numbly into the eyes of a girl, not that much older than her own eighteen years, a girl with no name and no life but for this one moment when she stopped to helped Hermione to her feet. There was a pause as they stared at each other, the elder girl's hand wrapping around Hermione's right to tighten her hold on her wand. And then there was a blaze of green, and the girl's body was at her feet, the person who had cast it long gone, lost in other enemies, lost in themselves.

Hermione couldn't even find the strength to wince.

"Get up, Hermione," she whispered to herself. "Get up."

There was something…so _futile_ about it all. It had to be done, she knew that; Voldemort _had to die_. Had to be destroyed, at the price of their own destruction. And so they worked at it, planned, brought down all those around him, stopped attacks in some desperate hope that people would see that he could be stopped. But Voldemort simply turned to another part of England and unleashed a hellish ice and fire. He needed no planning, no working. He simply looked and struck and by God Hermione had thought that would be his downfall. If they planned enough, his spontaneity would not be able to keep up.

How wrong she had been.

They planned, they worked, they rid themselves of everything that they had been to learn what was needed to take him down and stop him once and for all…and all Voldemort did was close his eyes and lazily point in a direction, and that Direction would be Death and Fire in moments. And there was nothing they could do about it, except regroup and plan some more.

"Get up, Hermione, get up."

She had lost sight of Harry as soon as the battle had begun, watched him be whisked away by Advanced Aurors just like every battle, hoping against hope that this time Voldemort would show himself. Ron had taken her arm to keep her close as witches and wizards pushed passed them, determination in every step as they met the enemy head on.

Hermione couldn't remember much after that.

Lost in the movements of her wand, the Spells burning on her lips as she mouthed them, silently trying to stay one step ahead of her opponents, lost in the blood and bodies that fell like toy soldiers, blank eyes searching for something she couldn't give.

She couldn't even hate them. Because to hate…hate would mean she was murdering these men and women. And she didn't believe she was a murderer. Couldn't believe it. She was simply doing what she saw as right, just like they were. They were sacrificing each other for ideals.

Someone slammed into her shoulder and she spun, unbalanced, eyes unfocused, to settle on bright red hair. She blinked.

"Ron…?" she murmured, and stepped forward, absently casting a Shield spell, rebounding the darker Curses sent her way. The boy was a blur of colour and sweat, blood and green and carrot top hair, blazing blue eyes and a wand that trembled in his grasp. He was being forced step by step into a retreat, spells wild, yelled at the top of his voice until she could hear the crack of panic, a splinter in china, so close to breaking. "Ron!"

But her voice, too, was breaking. Losing control. She watched with something torn in her expression, trying to get closer to him and touch him, because he was real and he was there and damn it why did the air feel like tar, so thick and black and clinging –

A blast of red and Hermione stumbled, eyes going wide as she saw Ron echo her fall, landing hard on his shoulder but having no time to even grimace in pain, trying to roll and aim another Hex at his attacker…

"Ron," she murmured again. "Ron, Ron, Ron."

Hermione wondered if she'd really thought that repeating his name would bring him back.

A Curse hit her, slicing through her leg, a stinging pain that should have made her wince, at least, but she was numb. So, so numb. She drew in a breath and held it, carefully turning her head until her cheek was pressed into the cold, icy grass. The frost cut into her cheek, crept into her eye, and she wondered if she was be cold and cruel like the ice, like in the story, The Snow Queen, to sit on winter throne and bask in blinding white, waiting for the hero to come and melt that ice.

Hermione wondered where Harry was.

The breath shuddered in her lungs and out of her mouth, bitter and twisting, forcing her to take another and another, reminding her that she was still alive and she needed to fight. Needed to live. This wasn't the Final Battle. She couldn't die until the Final Battle. That was the way the story was told.

"Get up," she choked. "Get up, Hermione, get up."

_Get up!_

A moment in which she breathed, waited for that Killing Curse to come in dazzling green, the colour of Harry's eyes, and then she dug her fingers into unforgiving concrete-like soil until the nails chipped and bled, began to drag herself forward until she could almost touch Ron, if she just reached out that little bit more…

"_Mobilicorpus_," she said, once to the DeathEater approaching her, throwing him quite heavily into a nearby group, and then again to move Ron towards her, fingertips touching his palm, then his shoulder, moving to his nose, his lips, his ears – the ears that turned so red when she came near him – his lips again, fingers trembling, his neck, his chest, the hip bones that stuck out – _like a girl's,_ she'd always teased – and his palm again, brief, flitting touches that made her choke all over again and try to cry, try to be hot with tears, try.

On her knees, Shocking whoever came too near, Hermione stared.

"Harry, where are you?" she asked quietly. "We need a hero, Harry, a hero. Where are you?"

But he wasn't there. She couldn't see him. Only nameless bodies that cursed and cried and killed and hurt and were killed and were hurt. They were so vulnerable. So easily destroyed. How could hordes of easily killed bodies even think to defeat someone as powerful as Voldemort? Someone as immortal as he. Someone…something inhuman.

"Hermione!"

A voice broke through the haze of brutal thought, caused her to reel back and snap to the side, searching for the one who knew her name in bodies of the nameless.

"Hermione! GET DOWN!"

She frowned, confused, complex. "But everyone keeps telling me to get up. Get up, Hermione," she said to herself. "Get up."

Fingers bleeding, blood not all her own, corpses at her feet and colours in the air, Hermione pushed carefully to a crouch, rocking on her heels, then straightened, crumpled paper unfolding, cautiously, so not to tear.

"_HERMIONE!"_

She only managed to get halfway there, poised precariously with her knees bent, hunched, hand outstretched to keep her balance, wand tucked neatly in the curve of her waist. She didn't see the red, but felt something distort the air around her, her view of it. The world began to tilt again, ageing, cutting at the edges until black bled across her vision.

Something was touching her deep inside, something insidious, cold, touching what no one should ever touch, the most primitive and precious part of her. There was no sound, no hope to scream, no voice to fight back, only that leisurely stroke of unwanted fingers that had plunged deep into her very being and began to twist, savagely.

Hermione thought she found a voice to shriek something unnatural, inhuman, an animal wail, but she couldn't be sure. It was pain, and yet it wasn't. It was a violation, a bottomless fear, a panic and hopelessness all in one. An agony that went beyond what she'd ever felt. It clung to everything warm inside and burned an icy-heat, and when it stopped, she knew it would never leave. It would always be there, a taint on her very being, haunting her and lounging inside so smugly, saying _I have you now, you'll never be rid of me. _

She lay shuddering on her front, face pressed into the cold ground once more, legs ungainly huddled beneath her. A dry sob forced its way to tremble on her tongue as she rolled onto her side, curling up, and began to scream. It was too awful, too awful, _no no no no never again don't let me feel it I don't want to no _–

And then again, those clawing fingers that touched what shouldn't be touched, and she screamed screamed screamed.

She'd seen the Crucio so many times, had even in the deepest, darkest parts of her subconscious scorned those who sobbed like children and screamed their surrender. She was stronger, cleverer, she would never give in.

Oh sweet, sweet ignorance.

"Hermione, Hermione, you have to get up, get up, wake up, you have to move, we need to leave –"

Someone was shaking her, dragging her, desperation their drug. Remnants of the Curse held her mercilessly in its grasp, unwilling to let its victim go, and Hermione sighed in its embrace and thought _I can't get up anymore. Hermione can't get up. Don't make me. _

She sagged against the body hauling her – _female_, she noted dully – feet clumsy and uncooperative. Fellow witches and wizards were running backwards, firing Curses left and right, to the front, and beyond the deafening silence in her ears Hermione caught the distant howling of creatures. She moaned.

"Get up, Hermione," she mouthed to herself. "Get up."

When she fell, taking her rescuer with her, she wasn't surprised. Unable to see or hear, tongue sluggish and thick in her mouth, Hermione felt like a corpse. She felt…she felt unable. Empty. She found the word _couldn't_ and tasted it in her darkening mind and knew it encompassed everything she was in that moment. She closed her eyes and repeated it until her dry and cracked lips were forming the sounds and then her tongue was moving and soon the word was her mantra, echoing over and over and over and over until she opened her eyes and looked.

"I tried," Susan Bones said, her hair clumped with blood. She was crying, but there was something devastatingly resigned in her expression. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

Hermione couldn't say what happened next. The world was full of colour again and pain and hazy hands that ripped through her body, and she could see Susan Bones screaming in another's hold, one perfect blue eye burst and running down her weathered skin, and then Hermione couldn't see her anymore as more DeathEater's crowded around and she wished desperately _Harry, where are you? You're supposed to be the hero come and save us it's not supposed to be this way._

Something snapped inside of her. She bucked, shrieking, voice breaking and wavering and starting again, wand clutched so tightly in her hand that they couldn't get it off her, Curses and Hexes and whatever came to her mind erupting from acid-tipped lips and causing chaos around her.

Someone hit her, and then the pain was back. All knowing, all destroying. _Third time's the charm,_ she thought, thinking of the Longbottom's. _Three times and you're out. Three times and you're crazy. _

She didn't have the strength to scream this time. Only to cry wretchedly, pressed into the cold and unforgiving winter grass and wish that she could sink away into oblivion, into the earth. And on the edge of her consciousness, she felt anger, pure and destructive, primitive. So raw and painful that she wanted to shy away, but in her state could only observe unresponsively.

And as the world tilted once more, unnatural, the pain stayed with her and the soulless fingers clawed deep inside, the breath ripped from her as darkness closed in, just as unforgiving of her weakness.

_

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To be continued..._


	2. Memory

The world was held deathly silent, disturbingly still. Hermione had never known how connected a person was to the earth and its movements until it had ripped itself away from her, made her wait, as if halfway between trying to draw in a breath and letting it out. She could do neither. The movement was within her; chaos of feeling and twisting that dug claw-like fingers into her eyes and pulled, a heavy weight.

And the pain…it gleefully dribbled hands of ice across her soul and _clung_. She wanted to cry but…crying was not a possibility in this silence, this stilted halt in time. The part of her that had hidden away in the darkest part of her mind noted how she seemed to be caught in the moment that the third Cruciatus had been cast. Which…which could not be a good thing, for her mind or her body. Maybe this was her insanity. Maybe her body had shut down, given up, just let her drift.

Maybe she had died.

Beyond the forces that made her wait in prickling clay, Hermione could sense a disturbance. A point of unease and failure, of life and death, of suffering just to feel beyond the numb embrace of destruction. She managed to draw in a breath, but was it her or someone else? Something else. Something not human, natural but beyond humanity. Innocently selfish.

As her world shifted, her skin softly fell into something solid.

Disorder slammed into her, through her chest, shattering any breath she had taken. She saw images, of trees and land and war and blood and sun and laughter and –

Pain. Confusion. Panic. Curiosity. Something lost and something found, bathing in sun and feeding on its light, drinking rain, growing and stretching, determined to be higher and stronger, greener – not her _not her_, not human, not _Hermione_ – wind brushing against her, harsh, harsher, a thrashing of limbs and the fear of a blade – her own fear, _thank Merlin_, her own – loud, so loud, with glinting edges that roared and demanded quick, easy death…

_Deforestation,_ she thought dazedly, _Muggles. Saws. Trees. Grass._

And the agony. The fury. It sank into her, scalding liquid, fed on her life, filling every inch of her. She thrashed, somehow, somewhere, a sound bubbling on her tongue, so acidic. She clawed at her throat, eyes wide, watched and felt and breathed with the world and _knew_. She saw Curses and Spells and she felt people dieing, murdered, so violently stolen from her, ripped from her as if her own skin, her flesh, blood pouring –

_Life's liquid,_ she whispered frantically, _it burns, it burns so much…stop it, stop it please!_

– Or taken from her gently, soothing her, parting with last fleeting kisses on her cheeks, her lips, her hands, a sweet kind of sadness. Bound with love and care, in silk and satin bows.

Hermione cried, and saw and knew and watched without her eyes as a Battle commenced, her Battle, Harry so dull and dirty and cold and lost. Such a shadow. Saw Ron, crumpled, lost to her as well now, saw others dieing, felt them disappear with a wrenching tug that crushed her. Saw herself, fallen beneath the DeathEaters, the blinding red of _Crucio_. Felt it inside, a raw wound, pricked again and again by a needle.

Beyond this all was a faint emotion of admonishment, as if a mother to her child, twisted with anger and hurt and confusion.

She felt sightless eyes focus for one piercing moment on the other Hermione, with a clarity she knew instantly was rare for such a being, and it twitched just slightly, before moving on and forgetting. Forgetting, forgetting, forgotten.

And Hermione was left, suspended, caught in emotion and chaos that wasn't her own. Turned and spun and held so still, and paused, to examine and move on.

It was too much. Too much for a human, for a mind barred and bound by the rules of humanity. And she fell with no sign of ending, or beginning.

**_Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas_**

**Perturbo Aetas **

It's not the Last Battle, but it's just as intense, and they're just as unprepared. They're dieing. And then, something amazing happens…Your typical Hermione sent back in time story? Maybe…but not quite. SB/HG

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**_Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas_**

PART TWO

_Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it. -_ Michel de Montaigne

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**Memory**

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**_Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas_**

There seemed to be something Hermione was forgetting. Her brow furrowed as she walked, boots sinking into the mud of the dirt track that led away from the field she'd woken up in. Her arm hung limp at one side, but it was a numb pain. She suspected she'd slept on it strangely, to cause it to throb so. The air was cold, but not the bitter ice of…before. Of…

Shaking her head, Hermione treaded on.

Her hair was heavy with mud, and tangled beyond assistance, her body a leaden weight, but she felt distanced from it all. She felt like one beyond the realms; everything was hazy. Edges had softened and become dreamlike. She walked with nothing more then the thought that she had to keep going. There was somewhere she had to be.

The track merged into a makeshift road, and Hermione stood at the crossroads. She looked left and then right, very carefully, head heavy. Everything was so empty. Desolate. _Destroyed._

She blinked, the world shifting slightly, and took the turn to the right. The soles of her boots pressed against the ground, grounding her, holding her in place. A figurine. A play piece. A pawn.

She walked.

**_Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas_**

Detective Inspector Dawn was not an easily unnerved woman. Having survived the taunts and sexism of Officer Training and clawed her way to the top of her division, she was known to be as tough as leather and not to be trifled with. Her love life was thus a little bleak, but Dawn preferred shoving a dick into a cell than a dick being shoved into her, so she supposed it worked out just fine. She was well known for her unwavering loyalty to the force and her superiors; she focused unrelentingly on each case and didn't let any strange business daunt her. Therefore, she was put on many different and _unusual_ cases. Like this one, for example.

Detective Inspector Dawn stared at the green skull in the sky and was daunted.

Sirius couldn't blame her, really. In fact, he quite admired the way she stared up at it - obviously frightened - before turning back to them with clear eyes. Her shoulders were tense, and Sirius knew she was feeling that Dark Mark's malevolent power, empty eyes scoring into her darkest secrets and laughing at them. But Detective Inspector Dawn simply straightened her back and ignored it, focusing those intensely blue eyes on Sirius and Barrock. He grinned at her as her gaze met his, and she quickly looked at him head to foot. Her brow furrowed, and she turned to Barrock.

"Can I help you?" she asked wearily. "I have an Investigation to run here. I can't stop to chat."

Barrock grunted a reply as Sirius scanned the area.

The flashing blue and red lights would have been a strange sight on such a clear day, had it been only two years ago. It had been going on longer, of course, but there was only so long you could cover up mass murder. The police cars dotting the road, signs of obstruction leading men and women heading to lunch in the opposite direction; the body on the pavement. It was all a common sight now. A brutal sight, beyond comprehension. And so people ignored it. Lived between the lines of the stories in the newspapers. Pretended it didn't involve them.

Sirius Black wished he could take such a stance on life. _How easy it must be,_ he mused, _to be able to look the other way._ He often watched people walk by, staring in morbid fascination at the commotion, moving on to cluck pityingly with their friends that it was such a gruesome crime to so lovely a person, and why weren't the police doing something already? As if they had any say in the matter, locked away in their little pink bubbles and pointing the finger at anyone but themselves.

Detective Inspector Dawn looked tired. Sirius squished the feeling of pity that rose up in him, should Barrock look and see anything but professionalism in his face.

"Authorisation, please?" she asked, rubbing one set of rough knuckles against her right eye, squinting at the fake badges presented to her. She eyed them jadedly, and then proceeded to stare once more at both Sirius and Barrock. But, it seemed, there were more pressing matters on her mind, and no matter who these strange men were, a little more help couldn't hurt. She sighed, and gestured to the crime scene. "Follow me."

The sight was gruesome, even for Voldemort. Limbs no longer attached to the body, eye sockets empty and weeping, mouth gaping in a shriek of horror. Sirius shuddered briefly, and hoped James was serving better with his third assignment. His eyes trailed to the Forensic Scientist assigned to the case. The woman was shaking her head in bewilderment, waving a hand at an older man who was gesturing frantically. They wouldn't find anything, just like the last time. And just like the last time, their minds would be wiped and a nice little story concocted, of a mugging gone wrong and a poor young woman who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, a very nice little story indeed.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at his superior, but Barrock dismissed him with a shake of his head.

"No questions, Black," he growled, eyes narrowing. "We get in there, we take a look around, we get out and let Clean-Up do their job, alright?"

"Yes, sir," Sirius replied, acknowledging the hidden message to do nothing but watch. Guarding the corpses left behind by the Death Eaters was a boring job, but Voldemort had been quiet lately. Fighting would come later. For now, they had to make sure the bodies were respected and not taken for nefarious purposes.

Detective Inspector Dawn met with the Forensic Scientist and her partner, listening gravely as they listed everything that was wrong with the body, everything that shouldn't have been possible. Sirius watched the interaction, liking the woman's quiet anger, and wishing they could have someone like that on their side. But she would be Obliviated, just like the others, her memories altered, and in a few years she would probably be dead too.

Most good people were, now.

Barrock patted him on the arm, and pulled out a square of cotton. With great care, he laid it over the two bloody holes where the victim's eyes should have been.

**_Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas-Aetas_**

Hermione tilted her head to the side, feet aching, eyes throbbing as she tried to focus. Her wand was tucked neatly into her pocket, forgotten for the moment as she crouched in the shadows of the hedges surrounding the small agricultural village.

"I was sure the Safe Point was around here," she murmured to herself. Confused. Lost. Harry and Ron had spent the past year trying to prove that they could lead this. This…rebellion. Battle. Sacrifice. She'd invariably been caught up in it. Trying to prove that she was worth everything they didn't want to expect. She'd been so sure that she could live up to her reputation. Or even to simply live.

Funny. She didn't seem so sure anymore. A Little Girl Lost. Not even a definite form. Simply one of many.

Standing, Hermione approached the main street. Wary. Her head hurt, becoming liquid; heavy and scalding. She turned to face the line of shops, gingerbread houses, filled with the unknown that threatened to consume her. She took a step forward. Hesitated.

Where was everyone?

The moments passed as she breathed, quietly, trying to calm that wild fluttering within her. She understood that she was out in the open. Moody would skewer her. The bare silence pressed in on her. _Move_, she told herself firmly. _Move._ Those few months of training had not been for nothing. Gruelling though they were, she had tried to submerge herself within it, to make herself faster, harder, steelier. A bullet to hurt, to kill, to do her job. A weapon for the Order to use. _Move, Hermione._

A shriek of laughter shattered her subdued and disjointed thoughts. Her body jerked, reacting instinctively to the surprise, wand out and levelling towards the noise before she could gasp. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, breathing it all in, and then she flicked her wrist and her wand disappeared as the gaggle of kids rounded the corner. She watched them, uneasy. Twisted. Seeing herself in that group, and Ron and Harry, laughing against the world. She watched and wished and they rounded another corner and were gone. Just like her own innocence.

Everything was quiet again.

She turned back to the shops, ignoring her wild heart, and began to trace the lines with her eyes. Something was wrong here. She just didn't know what it was yet. But Hermione was clever. She knew things intimately, without anyone having to explain. She would figure this out. She would prove that she was useful.

Her cautious footsteps followed her eyes, moving from one shop to another, meeting the eyes of any curious shopkeeper before dropping her gaze and moving on. _I am a spectre, _she thought. _I am not here. You cannot see me. _

It was play magic, in the end. Like a toy gun. Witches and wizards, too young to go to Hogwarts but aware of magic, used this 'play magic' to their hearts content and promptly dismissed it as child's play as soon as wands and school was introduced. But it was easy to manipulate, and Hermione weaved it around herself now, a mock Invisibility Cloak, deflecting any muggle eyes.

Now that she had some form of protection, Hermione tried to tell herself that she felt better. That her heart had stopped swelling with fear until it began to constrict her breathing. That her mind wasn't a mess of muddied thought, shot through with horror at the thought that something was wrong and _God, why can't I remember what's wrong? _

Red hair, tipped with blood; dirt streaked freckled skin and empty eyes; cold lips and blasts of colour that blind and leave for dead

A strangled whimper clawed at her throat, but Hermione pressed one hand to her mouth to hold it in and breathed. She was just scared. That was all. Fear and the things you didn't know conjured worst images than the reality of it. Fighting it valiantly, Hermione began to list the things she'd do once she was back at Headquarters: A hot shower. Some food. Sit and listen to Harry and Ron talk about Quidditch because not speaking at all was unbearable. Read. Try and understand the next set of Ancient Texts that Remus left for her.

Hermione paused before a stack of newspapers, eyeing the shop behind them. There was a turning here. She remembered it, vividly, the road becoming rocky and treacherous until it met another road, which led into the city. There was a Portkey there, for returning Order members who were stranded.

Stranded from what?

Wide, gaping grins of monsters from the night, things that had once been men twisted into sickening replicas of their Lord; a perfect blue eye burst and weeping down one dirty cheek as she screamed and wailed and fought so desperately; Get up Hermione get up get down I tried I'm sorry Hermione; and clawing fingers that left insidious darkness on that which shouldn't be touched

Shaking her head, Hermione reached out and idly touched the newspaper on top. The smooth, inky paper left a trace of grey on her fingertip. She rubbed the stain quietly, staring at the date.

_February 2nd 1980_

Her breath caught. The fingertip returned to brush across the offending text, as if to rub it away. Her eyes widened.

"What...?" she breathed. One step back, two. Her heart began to pound, a sickening pace, her vision tunnelling to envelope that innocent stack of newspapers. Her chest hitched. "No...there is no way..." Her head shook, slowly, denying it. "It's against all the laws of time-travel...it's just not possible...it's -"

A shriek of laughter, of voices, and Hermione was gone.

Time passed.

She lay in a field of mud, eyes faded, a song on her lips. She felt heavy. Leaden, like she was encased in stone. Her eyes burned. And beneath it all, there was a distant hum in her ears, of an ancient power, and ancient life. Almost like a child. Hermione stared at the sky, the newspaper curled in one outstretched hand, and breathed in the air of a world where she did not belong.

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To be continued...


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